


Rhonda Hurley had the right Idea

by Sijglind



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Panty Kink, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 20:56:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sijglind/pseuds/Sijglind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>but the wrong guy, because Sammy looks damn good in those panties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rhonda Hurley had the right Idea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tofu_is_amazing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tofu_is_amazing/gifts).



They are supposed to find proof of a coven in Whitewood, South Dakota. _Supposed to_ , because Sam has to remind Dean of why they’re here, in Natasha Bennings’ flat while she’s at work, since Dean hasn’t stopped going through her underwear since he found the drawer five minutes ago.

“What about those?” Dean asks and waggles his eyebrows suggestively when Sam turns around to look at him, interrupting his own search through a box with suspicious-looking dried herbs. Dean is holding up a pair of emerald silk and black lace panties, shit-eating grin on his face as he stretches the scrap of cloth between his two index fingers to put it on perfect display for his brother. When Sam doesn’t do more than raise his eyebrows in a reproachful manner, Dean goes on, “c’mon, dude. Someone who’s hiding stuff like this beneath ankle length skirts is fishy. This is as good a proof as any that sweet, little Tasha’s a witch.”

“Keep on looking, Dean,” Sam says and turns back towards the herbs. If Dean doesn’t stop he’s gonna get a headache from all the eyerolling.

“Hey, what about—”

“ _No_ , Dean.”

“Aw, you’re no fun, Samantha.”

“Shut up. And stop going through her underwear like a creep. Jesus.”

“You on your period—”

“Dean, I swear to God!”

***

“I’m gonna go to the bar, check with the locals if they saw or heard something suspicious,” Dean says as he shrugs on his jacket. Sam only hums in acknowledgment, too occupied with searching through the internet and Dad’s notes. He doesn’t have to hear what Dean’s saying, the cologne he can smell is enough to tell him where his brother will spend most of his night.

“Don’t wait up for me, sweetheart,” Dean smirks and claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder as he passes by him on his way to the door.

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

The door closes with an audible click, but Sam still doesn’t look up from the laptop screen, too engrossed by a website for amateur witches looking for a willing virgin to be sacrificed on an altar to bring forth their Lord of Darkness. He just hopes nobody is stupid enough to agree to something like that, but to make sure they’re not really trying to summon Lucifer, he makes a fake account and writes something about cages and virgin sacrifices not working that way until he gets flooded with messages accusing him not to be a true believer and the moderators ban him. Well, he did what he could, maybe they’ll have to pay a visit to some of the users later. Dean would surely be on board when Sam tells him they are going to safe a virgin.

Stretching, Sam checks the small clock at the bottom corner of his screen. He has no idea how long Dean’s already gone, but chances are good he can get a hot shower (and maybe a little action with his hand) before his brother comes back from whichever bar or bedroom he found his way into.

Behind him, his cell reminds him with an annoying beeping that the battery is nearly dead, so Sam gets up and walks over to the door where his jacket hangs. When he searches through his pockets, something soft and silky brushes against his fingers, and Sam frowns, withdrawing whatever it is.

He frowns harder, then he stares, curses, rolls his eyes. Blushes.

It’s the damn panties Dean found in Natasha Bennings’ drawer, a scrap of black and emerald fabric that barely looks to be enough to cover everything it’s supposed to, and he has no idea how Dean managed to sneak them into Sam’s jacket pocket without him noticing. Shaking his head, Sam mentally replays the day’s events since they broke into the flat, the silk sliding against his skin as he rolls it around in his hands idly, the lace a bit rougher yet still smooth against the calloused pad of his thumb.

They were clearly meant as a dig at his manliness, and Sam plays with the idea of hiding all of Dean’s boxers and leaving only the panties in his duffel. He wonders how long it would Dean take before he’d start asking Sam where he hid them. Or maybe he’d go commando until Sam breaks and finally tells him, after all Dean is a man of pride.

Or maybe—

No, no, he’s not going there. No, definitely not. He’s not going to imagine _his brother_ in silky panties. No, not. ever. He’s not imagining how the emerald and black would contrast against Dean’s skin, how it would feel to run a hand over warm, taut skin until he reaches cool, silky smoothness—

No, that’d just be. _Wrong_.

Pressing index finger and thumb against his closed eyes, Sam tries to will the mental images away, but they are resisting, and his cock just decided that it rather enjoys the idea, incest and gayness aside, because it’s waking up with a twitch that makes blood flood downwards alarmingly fast—

And fuck the hot shower, Sam needs a cold one.

So he throws the panties on his bed and goes hiding in the bathroom.

***

Sam tries watching TV.

He tries doing more research.

He tries doing some push-ups.

He tries doing the crossword in an old newspaper the previous guest forgot in their motel room.

He tries watching TV again.

There is a pair of panties on his bed.

A pair of emerald silk panties with black lace at the side and along the waistband. They even have a honest-to-god tiny black bow at the front with an equally tiny rhinestone crystal dangling from it.

Sam might or might not have a panty kink. (He also might have incestuous thoughts about his brother wearing said panties, but he’d rather not think about that.)

He’s also pretty sure he should put the panties away before Dean catches him staring at them, but he doesn’t know if he will be able to just put them away without doing something that’s a really bad idea. Like putting said panties on.

Maybe he could just. Just once, maybe? Just to. Get it out of his system?

But he’s a man, he wears boxer briefs and how is that little amount of cloth even supposed to cover everything he has down there.

The silk felt really, really soft against his fingers.

He would look ridiculous, honestly. He isn’t really the androgynous type, and that’s honestly not a lot of fabric there.

A lot of men are sometimes doing stuff like this, right? And trying on panties doesn’t mean he isn’t manly. Right?

But how is he even supposed to fit in there, they look so _tiny_. Won’t that cut off the circulation in important places?

He won’t know until he hasn’t tried it. And the silk really _does_ look soft and uncannily inviting—

He’s going to fucking regret this.

***

The first bar was a bust. It’s not like Dean was trying really hard to get the locals talking about suspicious chanting in the woods at night, but he’d hoped at least that he’d find some company of the female and willing kind between the patrons.

No such luck. Not that he has anything against cougars, but he’d prefer them to look less like they’d been caught in a wind tunnel and then tried to drown themselves in a brewery.

Bar two didn’t offer much as well, and when he finally found a cute brunette in bar no. three, she’d nearly puked on his shoes when he’d pressed her against the side of the stall in the men’s. After that he’d decided that driving back to the motel and spending the rest of the night with a beer, some TV and his pain in the ass little brother might not be such a bad idea. At least there would be less puking.

Maybe he should check himself for curses when he’s back in the motel room. Maybe dear Tasha or one of her friends caught them snooping around. Wouldn’t be the first time the Winchesters have to deal with a streak of bad luck thanks to some teenage chicks getting their hands on an old tome or other.

Some douchebag has parked their car in front of Dean and Sam’s room, and so Dean has to leave his baby at the other end of the parking lot and walk the rest of the way to the room, all the while cursing about dickheads and their shitty Priuses and why the fuck a dingy motel like this has so many guests this time of the year.

Through a gap in the curtains of their room window, Dean can see that the light is still on. No doubt his nerdy little brother is still reading or doing research or something equally freaky that no hot-blooded man should do on a Saturday night.

With a broad grin, Dean leans in and peers through the gap, expecting to see his brother sitting in front of his laptop or lying on the bed with a book in his hands.

The grin freezes on his face before it slips away completely and leaves his jaw slack.

Well, that. That’s not what he’d expected.

Sam is indeed still awake, but he’s not reading or doing research, no he’s.

Dean has to take a deep breath because somehow his brain has to catch up with his eyes, because if he’s not heaving a damn fucked-up dream about his brother right now, then, yes, Sam is standing in their motel room in front of the full-length mirror wearing nothing but— _panties_.

“Holy shit,” Dean murmurs and has to pinch himself. He knows he should definitely turn around, get back into his baby and drive around the city for the next hour until he can be sure his baby brother is over whatever temporary insanity he’s currently experiencing. Yeah, he should definitely do that, but somehow he has forgotten how to move. Or close his eyes for that matter, because he’s staring. At his little brother, who’s wearing panties and looking at himself in the mirror.

He didn’t have this in mind when he put the panties in Sam’s jacket pocket before they left Tasha’s flat.

But who’d have thought Sammy’d have a bit of a kink when it comes to panties, huh?

Dean feels a grin creeping back onto his face, tugging at the corners of his mouth as he looks his brother over, follows the lines of his chest towards the jut of a hipbone towards the thin, black line of lace around the waistband, the dusting of dark hair vanishing beneath it, and woah, no no, no, not going there.

Dean looks away.

And looks back again, at Sam’s back this time, the curve of his spine, the two dimples at its end, beneath it, dark green silk hugging the cheeks of Sam’s ass, barely covering their perfect roundness, and—

Fuck.

This time he manages to close his eyes, but the image is still there, burned into the inside of his eyelids; his baby brother, Sammy, in panties, miles of taut bronze skin only interrupted by a scrap of green and black cloth, stretching obscenely over—

“This is fucking stupid!”

Sam’s voice makes Dean’s eyes snap open, and for a moment he fears Sam knows he’s there, _looking_ , but Sam is only looking down himself and frowning at the panties, biting his bottom lip, slick and red, and _oh god_ , shiny like he’s wearing lip gloss, and he’s tugging at the waistband of the panties, grimacing, blushing, red along his cheekbones and down his neck, and it should be absurd because Sam is a freaking 6’4” hunter with muscles and scars and broad shoulders and sideburns and long, shaggy hair, and most importantly he’s Dean’s little brother, but _god_ , Dean can feel his jeans getting too tight, because apparently his dick doesn’t care and has decided that he likes Sam wearing ridiculous silk panties very, very much.

Before Dean knows it, he’s fumbling the key into the lock and stepping through the door, Sam whirling around and looking like a deer caught with its hands in the cookie jar, and that doesn’t make sense, somehow, but it’s all Dean can come up with right now because his blood is nowhere near his brain.

“Dean,” Sam says and raises a hand, eyes still comically wide, about to explain that it isn’t like it looks, yada yada yada, but Dean doesn’t care, doesn’t let him speak, because, Jesus, those panties are stretching obscenely at the front, thin fabric trying its best to hide the bulge, red, pre-come shiny head of a cock peeking over the waistband, dark green cloth even darker where it’s damp.

“Sammy,” Dean says and his voice is rough, husky. And dammit, he didn’t drink enough to deal with this or have an excuse for the fact that he’s sporting the hard-on of his life because his brother is wearing panties. _Silk_ panties. With lace on them. And a little bow.

And it’s the hottest things he’s ever seen, including himself in Rhonda Hurley’s panties back then, and fuck, he’s going to do something stupid, even more stupid than staring at his baby brother’s hard cock confined by panties, because he’s walking towards Sam now, slowly, caught between hoping Sam will have enough willpower to run into the bathroom and begging he will keep on standing where he is and let Dean touch him.

There’s silk under his fingertips, smooth and slightly warm with body heat, lace, rougher, clinging to skin, and his eyes are looking at his hands, follows them as they slide over fabric and skin, thumb tracing the jut of a hipbone, the line of a waistband, index finger slipping beneath cloth and hand gripping one ass cheek, squeezing.

Sam’s breath hitches and Dean’s gaze snaps up, meets blown pupils in the middle of a ring of hazel, and he doesn’t know how he manages, but he says, breathless and whiskey-rough, “gotta stop me, Sammy,” but Sam shakes his head, and then leans in, bringing their faces closer together, breath mingling hot between them, and then they’re kissing.

They aren’t careful. Teeth click together and tongues slide against each other, mouths open and breaths coming in short, heavy bursts. Sam’s large hands come up to hold Dean at the back of his neck and head, pulling him impossibly closer and holding him as if Sam fears he’ll run away, but Dean isn’t going anywhere, not with the way Sammy feels against him, hard and hot and new and _forbidden_ but _so good_ , and he needs more, needs to taste, needs to bite at Sam’s lips, surprisingly soft, and not at all chapped like Dean’s. Sam’s mouth is hot and wet and he bets it would feel perfect around his dick, but he also wants to rub his dick against Sam’s or fuck him into the mattress, hard and rough and make him scream Dean’s name.

Dean groans into Sam’s mouth, hips snapping forward and hands pulling Sam closer, fingers digging into the flesh of his perfect, perky ass while they grind against each other like teenagers. Sam is pulling on Dean’s jacket, trying to slip it off Dean’s shoulders but Dean doesn’t want to let go of Sam’s ass and so the thing bunches up uncomfortably around his elbows. Dean couldn’t care less.

He’s walking towards the bed, pushing Sammy along, never breaking contact until Sam’s calves connect with the side of the bed and he falls back onto it, legs spread like a whore, eyes heavy-lidded and dark.

“Dean,” Sam whines and pushes his hip up invitingly, begging without words for some kind of friction against his cock, which is twitching beneath the silk, beads of pre-come rolling from its head and onto Sam’s abdomen, standing out clearly against his tanned skin, and _fuck—_

Dean wants do to so many things, wants to fuck his baby brother, his Sammy, wants to see his tight, little asshole stretching around his dick as he pounds into him and hear his breathy moans, wants to hear him beg for Dean’s cock and _harder, Dean, please, fuck me, deeper, Dean, please, right there—_

“God, Sammy,” Dean groans as he fumbles with his belt, fucking thing won’t come off because his hands are shaking, and Sam looks at him, licks his lips, chest heaving with his harsh breathing, sweat gathering in the hollow of his throat and he’s still grinding his dick against nothing but air as if he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing, too far gone already.

“Never knew you’d wear them,” Dean rambles while the belt comes loose and he starts on the jeans. “Would’ve gotten you a pair sooner if I’d known my baby brother likes to dress up.”

He steps out of his jeans as soon as they hit the floor, leaves his socks on because there’s no time, he doesn’t even recall taking off his jacket, but it’s gone, and all he can see is Sammy, spread out on the bed and wearing the panties, reaching out to pull Dean’s boxers halfway down his thighs, and then Dean’s on top of him, sensitive skin of his cock sliding over silk, hot, hard flesh of his brother’s dick beneath.

Dean groans, a long sound that sounds like release, like it’s been caught in his chest for far too long and now finally has found a way out. Sam is writhing beneath him, pushing his hips up as Dean is grinding down.

“Feels so good, Sammy,” Dean rambles on, says the words against Sam’s open lips as sparks shoot through his spine. “So good for me, baby brother, never knew you’d be so good for me, baby.”

“Dean,” Sam says, and again, “Dean,” like it’s the only word, only thing, only person he knows.

Silk against his cock, smooth and soft, lace brushing against his skin, and then the head of Sam’s dick against his own, hot and slick and perfect. Dean latches onto Sam’s lips with his own, too far gone for kissing, so they’re breathing and groaning into each other’s mouths, strangled sounds that could be names inbetween.

 _God_ , he’s gonna go to Hell for this, again, but it feels so fucking good, the soft fabric, Sam beneath him, all muscles and flat chest, large hands holding onto Dean’s shoulders and twisting the cloth of his shirt while Sam arches his back to get closer, closer, more, and Dean can do nothing but comply, murmuring nonsense into Sam’s neck and collar bone while he grinds their dicks together, speeding up, the rhythm stuttering and clumsy, but fuck if that doesn’t feel good.

“Deandeandean,” Sam shouts as he comes, coats Dean’s abdomen and chest and his own with his come, his whole body tensing up and arching off the bed, eyes rolling back, jaw slack, head thrown back, and it looks so beautiful and perfect and fucking forbidden, and that only makes it so much hotter.

Dean’s fingers in Sam’s hair, his teeth digging into the skin where shoulder runs into neck, slickness between their cocks from Sam’s cock and Dean comes, bites down until Sam grunts, the rhythm of Dean’s hips faltering as he rides out his orgasm, spots dancing in his vision, hoarse groan falling from his lips.

Boneless, he collapses on top of his brother, Sam giving an _oof_ of protest but his hands coming up nonetheless to rub over Dean’s back, along his spine. Figures Sam’d be a cuddler.

They’re coming down slowly, the afterglow ebbing away and leaving them sticky with sweat and come.

“Dean,” Sam says, carefully, and Dean can imagine his face even though he doesn’t see it from where he’s hiding his own in the crook of Sam’s neck. Of course Sam wants to talk now, while they’re still enjoying the awesome all-is-good-feeling of an orgasm, and Dean hates it.

“Tomorrow,” he says. Tomorrow, they’ll talk about it, but now he’s going to fucking sleep.

Sam nods.

“Okay,” he says. And again, “okay.”

Dean wriggles around on top of him, getting more comfortable as Sam’s hands running up and down his back lull him into sleep.

“Keep the panties,” is the last thing he says before he’s dragged under to the sound of Sam’s breathless and surprised chuckle.


End file.
